


when the revenant came down

by salvation_dear



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvation_dear/pseuds/salvation_dear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma thought she would bake the cookies herself.  That's what you did for loved ones over the holidays, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is set early seasons, in some kind of magical time when Henry and Regina's relationship is better and Emma and Regina are co-parenting him, but before Hook, or Neal, or Robin, or other things I don't really like. Leave me be.  
> 2\. Title is from “Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois” by Sufjan Stevens. Which is about Christmas, among other things.

* * *

Emma thought she would bake the cookies herself. That's what you did for loved ones over the holidays, right? You did thoughtful things for them. So their days could be merry and bright. And so on.

'Loved ones' was way too strong a phrase, of course. Friends. They were friends, weren't they? Acquaintances? Co-parents?

“Henry,” she said, dumping flour into a cereal bowl. Some spilled over the side, landing on Emma's sleeve. “Would you say your mom and I are friends?”

Henry was seated on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs and sifting through a bag of chocolate chips. “Um,” he said, without looking up. 

“Acquaintances,” Emma ameliorated. “Allies? Well-wishers, maybe. In that we don't, you know, actively want to hurt each other any more.”

“I think those all mean 'friend',” Henry said, popping a dark chocolate chip into his mouth.

“Yeah,” said Emma, and scowled at her bag of flour. “Well, yeah.”

“You want some of these? They're good.”

“Don't eat all of those. I need them.” Emma sighed deeply, and the flour caught on her breath, scattering white powder all over the bench and onto Henry. 

He looked down at his coat. “I think you need a bigger bowl, anyway.”

“Thanks, kid. You couldn't have told me that before?”

“I thought you knew what you were doing!”

“Hey, try and remember who the adult is, here.” Emma scanned the recipe book again. “Baking powder, damn it. How do we not have baking powder? Snow food shops like we're expecting the apocalypse.”

Henry regarded her evenly. His coat was powdered. Emma sighed again, thinking about how annoyed Regina would be if she sent him to her like this, and picked up a kitchen towel to dust him off.

Henry laughed as she flicked the towel ineffectually over him. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up. I'll be the one getting in trouble if you go to Regina's looking like Frosty the Snowman.”

Henry tilted his head, regarding her.

“Hazelnuts,” Emma added, struck by sudden inspiration. “We'll need hazelnuts. We need to go to the store. Wait, does Regina have allergies?”

Henry shrugged, and ducked out of the way of Emma's towel. “I don't think so,” he said doubtfully.

“Great,” Emma said. “You don't know. Now, in addition to everything else being awkward and Christmas being a stupid holiday anyway, we can add me trying to kill your mom with tree nuts.”

“Emma,” Henry said evenly. “She's not allergic to hazelnuts.”

“I appreciate the once more with feeling. And, in all fairness, I guess she _has_ tried to poison me with baked goods herself. And hers was deliberate.”

“She's sorry,” Henry said, jumping off the counter to his feet. “I'm ready to go.”

“Of course you are, you never even took your coat off.”

“It's freezing in here.”

“Sorry,” Emma said. “I'll try with the heating again when we get back. It's _on_ , it's just – wait, how do you know she's sorry? Did she say something? She never said anything to me.”

Henry's mouth twitched in amusement as he dusted down his coat himself, far more effectively than Emma had. “She's not great with apologies.”

“Understatement of the century,” Emma muttered, under her breath. “Okay, let me just get my boots.”

* * *

There was tinsel on _everything_. Every time Emma turned around, another sparkly metallic strand seemed to attach itself to her.

“We should get white chocolate,” Henry repeated stubbornly, picking a bag of white chips off the shelf and waving them in Emma's face.

“No, I said no. What is your obsession? Those are not even chocolate, it's just a marketing term. They're, like, sugar and grease.”

“You sound like Mom.”

“I do not.” Emma scanned the aisle nervously. Was she missing something else? Why did cookies have to be so complicated? Why didn't she make grocery lists like normal people? Regina probably made lists. Regina was probably the queen of lists, itemized and colorized, and never went halfway home through the freezing snow just to realize she'd forgotten cream of tartar, whatever that even was. “This music, ugh,” she said, and didn't realize she'd spoken the words out loud until Henry looked at her quizzically. “Christmas music.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“It's awful. It's just a collection of rehashed, sugary sentiment trying to get you to feel nostalgic for a time that never existed. And is never going to exist. It's like the white chocolate of music - it's not even real. Real music makes you feel something.”

“Christmas music makes people feel things.”

“Yeah, feel panicked about their shopping and stressed about how much money they're spending. Apprehensive about sitting around a table with all the relatives they hate. Angry with those relatives for being people they hate that they're required to spend time with and can't escape from. Depressed and lonely because they don't even have relatives they hate.”

When she looked over at him, Henry was just watching her silently.

Emma sighed. “I always listened to music when I felt alone. You know sometimes when you're listening to music, it just – I don't know – it catches you the right way. And you're right in the moment, it's like everything in your life until now has put you in this exact time, in this exact place, and you know it's all been to get you to here, right here and now. You know?”

Henry said doubtfully: “I don't think so.”

“Well, what do you know, you're eleven. You think the Rolling Stones are a proverb. Anyway, my point is, Christmas music doesn't do that.”

“Mhmm,” Henry said, and Emma was starting to get the distinct impression she was being humored. “She likes white chocolate, though.”

“Hmm?” Emma asked absently, juggling her shopping basket to her other hand while trying to read the ingredients on a package of rainbow sprinkles. “Your mom? She doesn't really seem like the type, Henry. She likes dark chocolate, truffles – I don't know – red wine, olives - “

Henry made a face.

“Grown-up food,” Emma sympathized. “I know.”

“She likes white chocolate,” he insisted. “Trust me, Emma. It's a secret, but I know it.”

“A secret?” Emma straightened up. “You're telling me Regina's secrets?”

Henry folded his arms in front of him, but not before throwing the white chocolate chips into Emma's shopping basket. “I know a lot about her,” he said. “I can give you insider information.”

“Really,” Emma said drily, turning to head to the register and noticing another strand of tinsel on her coat. She picked it off with two fingers. “Insider information.” 

Henry skipped to catch up with her, and fell into step. “Sure. I know her secrets better than anyone.”

“What makes you think I'd be interested in her secrets? Is this another project?”

“No,” Henry said slowly.

Emma got in line and dropped her grocery basket on the edge of the conveyor belt. She turned to look at Henry, who'd stopped a little way back and was watching her. “Then what?” she asked. “Also, little help? Groceries don't unload themselves, kid.”

Henry stepped forward and picked up a box of candy canes from a display. Dropping them on the counter, he reached into the basket, his hands brushing Emma's, and started lining items up on the belt. “Because you want to impress her,” he said. “You like her.”

Emma lined up baking supplies, only half-listening, frowning in concentration. She checked everything against her mental list. “Well, of course I _like_ her. We're friends, didn't we establish that? And she's your mother and I'm – also your mother, and I just want everything to be – friendly.”

“Oh,” said Henry, leaning down to drop the basket beside the counter. “Friendly.”

“What's that tone supposed to mean?”

“What tone?” Henry asked, wide-eyed. “I didn't have a tone.”

“There was a definite tone,” Emma said firmly.

Henry sighed. “I just – you _like_ her. You're into her.”

It didn't register with Emma for a minute, and when it did she stepped backward in a hurry, catching her elbow on the groceries and knocking some to the floor. Her baking powder had split open. She looked at it for a long moment, then decided she had bigger concerns.

“Wait, what?” she asked, aware of her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Like, you mean, _like_ \- like -”

“You need to stop saying 'like',” Henry said, bending down to pick up the fallen items. “I can't understand what you mean.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. You think I'm – into - Regina?”

Henry looked back at her evenly. “Sure,” he said. “Aren't you?”

* * *

“You _are_ ,” Henry was still insisting on the drive home. “You ask about her all the time.”

“She's your mom!” said Emma, a little too loudly, and indicated for an upcoming turn. “I'm being polite.”

Henry raised a finger. “When we all spend time together, you're always talking to her.”

“Because I'm _polite_.”

A second finger. “You're always looking at her.”

Emma turned the corner and flipped the indicator light off manually, suddenly irritated by the sound. “It's _polite_ to look at someone when they're talking, Henry. Were you raised by wolves?”

“I was raised by my mom. Who you like.”

“I don't -”

“You take me home and pick me up early so you guys can catch up. You buy her coffee and you ask her how she is. You're always playing with your hair when you talk to her.”

Emma looked at him, with all his five fingers raised, then back to the road. Back to Henry, who was now combing his fingers through imaginary luxurious long hair.

_Fuck._

* * *

Emma poured them both eggnog and seriously considered adding a lot of bourbon to hers. Leaving Henry to sort baking supplies, still wearing his winter coat and scarf, she picked another piece of tinsel out of her hair and prepared to resume her struggle with the apartment heating.

Before she walked out of the room, though, she stopped and watched him for a minute, thinking about Christmas Eve and the spirit of the season and the fact that he'd taken her hand as they walked back to the car, even as they were arguing, even as it was cold and they needed to walk fast, even as he was eleven now and it was probably embarrassing to be seen walking hand-in-hand with your mother. One of your mothers.

Emma had never been someone who gave or received physical affection with ease. Henry – friendly, open Henry – took her hand sometimes when they were walking somewhere, or spontaneously grabbed her in a one-armed hug. It had been weird. Not weird _bad_ , but an adjustment. 

But Emma was good at change. Change was what she did. Even if this one was uncomfortable at first, she'd been determined to make it work.

First, she'd deliberately stopped herself stiffening when he threw his arms around her. She'd kept herself loose and made herself think about what this meant; what it was that he gave her affection so freely. Next, she watched Regina and practiced. Admittedly Regina may not have been the best role model given her rocky relationship with Henry when Emma first came to Storybrooke, but they were doing better now, and Emma was observant. She'd watch Regina rub a hand over Henry's shoulder, apparently without thought, or smooth his hair absently while she talked to Emma.

That was the goal, Emma thought. She wanted to be able to hug him without a thought; without ancient history holding her back. She wouldn't let him grow up like she had: alone and spiky and untouchable and always a little bit afraid. She wanted Henry to have an open heart; a lot of friends; people who loved him. Henry would have the best she and Regina could offer, just the way Emma had always wanted it for him.

Now, she took a few steps across the room and crushed him to her in a hug. 

“Oof,” said Henry, but he smiled up at her and tucked himself in closer under her arms. “What's that for?”

“No reason,” said Emma.

“Okay. Love you, Mom.”

Emma brushed her lips against his hair and then let him go. “I love you too, kid,” she said, and by now she'd had enough practice to keep the wonder out of her voice.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Emma checked the heat vents around the apartment, reminding herself as she did that although she might not be the natural, instinctive mother she wanted to be, she was trying and she was something. And that that something seemed to be good enough for Henry, who loved her in a way she couldn't quite fathom or understand, but nonetheless would fight to the death to protect.

She loved him too, after all.

The heating problem was not going to be as simple as she'd hoped, though. After the vents and the registers, she checked the filter, and then was at the end of her heating knowledge. It wasn't freezing in here, exactly, but it wasn't getting any warmer.

She sighed, and called Snow.

* * *

“No good,” she told Henry, taking a slug of her forgotten eggnog as she leaned her hip against the counter. 

Henry looked up from – breaking candy canes into a bowl?

“Are you breaking candy canes into a bowl?”

“Yeah. So the heat's not coming back on?”

“Not unless we can fix it by magic. Hey, do you think -”

“You should probably talk to my mom about that,” Henry said firmly.

“I guess. What's with the candy? I thought you were going to eat those.”

“Nuh uh,” Henry said. “It's for the cookies.”

“White chocolate and candy. This is what Regina likes?”

“Definitely.” Henry twisted in the kitchen chair, resting his elbow on the metal side to look at her. “I told you. Insider information.”

Emma groaned, and knelt on the floor to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. Cold seeped through the knees of her jeans and she suppressed a shiver until she could stand back up, mixing bowl in hand.

“There you go, Roy Scheider. A bigger bowl.”

“Huh?”

“It's from – never mind. You're probably too young to watch it anyway.” Emma put her phone on the bench between them and tapped it to life, bringing up the cookie recipe page she'd googled earlier. “I guess we're going to have to make some adjustments here.”

Henry craned his neck to scan the page. “It should be fine. You just substitute ingredients. This says it's best if you freeze your chocolate chips first.”

“My chocolate chips are already freezing, believe me,” Emma said drily, blowing on her hands to warm them. “Did Regina teach you to bake?”

“I help sometimes,” Henry said, and stuck a broken piece of candy cane into his mouth. “She likes cooking,” he added, around a mouthful.

“If you spit that on me I am not going to be responsible for my actions. Also, if you eat too much and go back home tonight bouncing off the walls with a sugar high, that's gonna be my fault too.”

“It's Christmas,” Henry said, but this time he held his hand over his mouth until he could crunch the candy down.

“I know,” said Emma, and leaned over to push a wayward strand of hair back from his eyes. Consulting the recipe, she sliced and chopped butter, adding it to the bowl with eggs.

“I think you were supposed to weigh it,” Henry said, watching her progress critically.

“The butter?” Emma asked. She started creaming the mixture together with a spoon, and adding sugar. “Close enough is fine. That's why cooking is an art, not a science, Henry.”

He looked skeptical. “What are we doing about the apartment?”

“ _We're_ not doing anything, kid.”

“Come on,” he said, “don't leave me hanging, here.” He winked at her, holding his hand out as if he was expecting a low-five.

Emma laughed. “What is that? Don't let your mom hear you say that.”

“I know, I know, she'll blame it on you. And you don't want to get in trouble because you have this _thing_ for her. I'll tell her it's from comic books.”

Emma thought it was probably safer to ignore part of his reply. “You think she wouldn't cut you off? No more comic books?”

“No way. She likes that I'm reading. And she reads them too.”

“Huh,” said Emma, and tipped more sugar into her cookie mixture. Henry peered over the bowl as she mixed it through. He dipped a tentative finger over the side and into the mix.

“Don't do it, man,” Emma said, tapping his finger with the back of the spoon.

Henry, grinning, drew his finger back and stuck it in his mouth. “Tastes okay so far.”

“That's because it's just three cups of sugar with some goo to stick it together. Of course you're gonna like it.”

“Don't forget the baking powder,” Henry said. “We had so much trouble getting it.”

“I think the baking gods were angry at me today,” Emma said with a sigh. “Can you find me the salt, too?” She pointed at the right cabinet with one foot.

Henry knelt and opened the door, and she could hear him in there moving things around. Emma groaned and kept mixing, although her arm was aching by now, and baking was far more physical than she'd imagined, and maybe she should think about an electric mixer for next time. The next time she made cookies. Which was going to be never, because this was all turning out to be far more trouble than it was worth and if Christmas music was for suckers, making stuff with your own hands to show someone that you cared about them was definitely worse.

And she _did_ care, Emma thought with another groan.

“Hen?”

His reply was muffled, but affirmative, his head still stuck in the cupboard.

“I don't need the insider information, okay? I don't have a _thing_ for Regina, and I don't want you to worry about stuff like that. I don't want you to feel like this is something – I don't know – that could be more important to me than my relationship with you. I love _you_ and Regina loves _you_ and there is no other relationship that either of us would ever enter into that would change that, or be more important than that.” Emma was suddenly self-conscious of the raw emotion she could hear in her own voice, and felt her face warm, and she stopped. “You know,” she added lamely, after the silence went on too long. “Just so you know.”

Henry leaned back out of the cabinet, and craned his head around to look at her. “Wow,” he said.

Emma shifted under his gaze. “Just so you know,” she repeated uncomfortably.

Henry smiled then, and damn but that kid's smile lit up a room. Even when it was cold outside and inside and Emma felt exposed and raw and Christmas was an awful time of year, anyway, full of emotions she didn't need and old shitty memories of old shitty Christmases that could sneak up on you and kick you in the back of the knees when you thought for a moment you might belong somewhere and then remembered that you were alone, that you were always going to be alone. 

Even then.

Sometimes - stupidly, sentimentally - Emma thought maybe Henry had come back into her life as her reward for being alone for so long. It was a silly, fanciful idea, fitting for someone who believed in that kind of thing. Not for Emma, who only believed in fairy tales because she'd seen hard cold proof, and even that had taken her a while. No-one got rewarded for going through hard times.

Henry's smile, though. And the way he hugged her. It was enough to make you want to believe in that stuff.

He was watching her now. “I know, Ma,” he said, gently, as though he was being careful with her. “But thanks for saying. You know, for someone who doesn't like Christmas you're really getting into the spirit.”

Emma ducked her head. “Anyway,” she said defensively. “My point was, I don't have a _thing_. Did you find the salt?”

“I don't think there is any,” Henry said, pulling himself back onto his feet with one hand on the top of the counter.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“Yeah,” Henry laughed, and unfolded a fist, revealing Snow's salt shaker, which was shaped like a bluebird. 

Emma snatched it out of his hand. “Not funny,” she said, although it was kind of funny. “Anyway. You're going back to your mom's tonight, and you're not going to speak to her about any of this, right? It'd be weird.”

“Whatever you say,” Henry said, and settled himself back down in his chair.

“Mary Margaret and David are going to be back, but I tried getting hold of someone to fix the heat and there's no chance before Christmas.”

Henry straightened up. “Will you guys be okay? What will you do?”

Emma waved a hand at him, and unscrewed the bluebird's head to tip salt into her mixture.

“You're supposed to measure that, too,” Henry pointed out.

Emma ignored that, and stuck the head back on the bird. “We'll be fine,” she said. “It's warm enough that we won't freeze. We've got a portable heater, we know how to dress for weather, and we've got blankets. Let's just hope my fairytale isn't The Little Match Girl.”

“That one's horrible,” Henry said with feeling.

“I know, isn't it?”

* * *

Emma knew Regina's knock by now. Sharp, efficient, firm. Like the woman herself. Emma didn't know how that kind of thing could be communicated by a knock on the door, it just was.

“That's your mom,” she told Henry, standing up.

Henry stayed at the table, chin in his hands, watching cookies cool. “You're still coming tomorrow, right?”

“Sure,” Emma said. “It was nice of her to invite me.”

“She likes you,” Henry said, still not looking up.

“Likes me,” Emma repeated. “Likes me, like – is into me – likes me? No, wait. Don't answer that.”

“I didn't understand it anyway.”

“Good. I don't want to hear your opinion.”

“You always want to hear my opinion!”

“This is my one exception,” Emma said, moving toward the door. “Not a word. Get your stuff.”

Henry grumbled, but went to pick up his backpack and books.

Regina, on the other hand, smiled like a ray of sunshine when Emma opened the door, revealing Henry ready to go. There was enough of her smile left over for Emma, too; to let Emma bask in it like it was the start of spring and she was an unfurling baby fern.

You know, basking in her smile in a friendly, we-are-raising-a-child-together-and-respect-each-other-as-acquaintances-and-individuals kind of way. (Emma could practically hear Henry laughing at the voice in her head.)

“I'm sorry,” she told Regina, who was looking at her expectantly. She'd clearly missed something. “I wasn't listening.”

Regina sighed, and the smile disappeared. Emma felt colder, and wrapped her arms around herself, tucking her bare hands into her sweater sleeves.

“Are you ever?” Regina asked, with a touch of acidity, but then Henry slipped a hand into the crook of her arm, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he walked out the door, and the smile was back: smaller, gentler, but definitely back.

“I am now,” Emma promised, leaning into the doorjamb. She could feel the side seam of her jeans pressing into her hip; if she stayed like this for long, it would get uncomfortable. She was tired, though, she realized, and the long day was still going. Early shift at work, and Henry, and baking, and the cold, and Christmas, and Christmas always added another fifty percent to anything that was dragging Emma's mood down at this time of year.

“I was just confirming times for tomorrow,” Regina said, still with a hint of stiffness. She covered Henry's hand with her own, though, and Emma thought her next breath looked more relaxed. “We'll be eating at one, but come over anytime. Henry would love to see you.” She paused; hesitated, and Emma watched her curiously. “Of course,” Regina added, after a moment, but Emma wasn't sure that was what she had originally intended to say.

That was the thing about Regina, Emma thought. Watching her closely gave you insight and information you wouldn't have otherwise. _Insider information_ , she thought with an internal grin. The woman was an intricate puzzle. And Emma - well, Emma Swan had always loved a challenge.

“Eleven?” Emma suggested. “I'll bring Henry's present. And I can help with the food.”

Henry's eyes lit with curiosity, and this time Emma let the smile reach her mouth. It felt like someone had struck two stones together all of a sudden, a little spark in her belly of hope and excitement. Maybe the idea of Christmas wasn't so bad, when you were going to spend it with your kid, and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon just because you'd bought him a present. Maybe this parenting thing wasn't quite as complicated as it seemed.

Regina was frowning. “Help won't be necessary. But eleven sounds fine. You're spending the morning with Snow and David?”

“Yeah,” Emma said, and put a hand to her face to push back her hair. Halfway through, she noticed what she was doing and disentangled her fingers quickly, dropping them to her sides and hooking her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans. She looked at Henry, who was carding the fingers of his free hand through imaginary hair again, and scowled.

Regina caught the line of her gaze, and turned to Henry, who snapped his free hand back down by his side so quickly Emma knew Regina was going to realize something was up. Regina just watched him for a moment, though, and then turned back to Emma.

“It's cold,” she said.

Emma paused. “Yes,” she agreed cautiously.

“In here, I mean,” Regina said, gesturing inside the loft.

“Oh!” said Emma. “Of course. Yeah.” This time she didn't dare look at Henry. “The heat's out.”

“What's wrong with it?” Was Regina leaning forward toward her? They definitely seemed closer together than they had a minute ago, Emma thought, and she caught the scent of Regina's perfume, and – none of this was helping her focus on the conversation. She shook herself and took a step back, straightening her back instead of leaning against the door.

Regina noticed, and with a shadow of consternation crossing her face, took a step back also, tugging Henry with her.

“I don't know,” Emma confessed. “Henry suggested we could fix it with magic.”

“It seems like hiring someone to repair it would be a better idea,” Regina said. “Without knowing what's actually wrong -”

“Kind of hard to fix it, yeah,” Emma said. “We're not going to get anyone to work on it over the holidays, though. Don't worry about it,” she added, when Regina's face did not lighten. “We're not going to freeze.”

Regina peered past her into the loft. “I could start a fire,” she said, and this time her lip curled just the smallest amount, and the light in her eyes was like Henry's when Emma mentioned presents, if a little more malevolent. And looking at that tiny almost-smile, there was that spark in Emma's belly again, although this time it felt a little different.

“I don't think Mary Margaret will go for that,” she said finally.

“Pity. It might improve the decor.” Regina looked down and straightened her gloves. Not looking up, she added: “You could stay at the house.”

“The -” Emma started; glanced at Henry and saw him smile. “Sorry, I don't think I heard you.”

“At the house with Henry and I,” Regina said, still not looking up. “There's room.”

For a second it flashed, almost unwanted, through Emma's mind – an evening with Henry and Regina, lights low, Christmas Eve quiet surrounding the town and enveloping them, that little frisson of excitement that something good was on the horizon, the warmth and comfort of being with loved ones. _Yes_ , loved ones, she added firmly to her own, hesitant thought. Loving Henry, caring about Regina: these were not feelings to be frightened about. These were good things, wonderful things, and she maybe kind of needed to stop being a sissy about letting good things into her life.

She leaned forward and touched Regina's arm, and Regina looked up. 

“I'll be fine,” Emma said softly. “We're having a very Charming Christmas Eve, or something.”

Regina's eyes were still on her. 

“Well,” Regina said, and her voice was softer, too. “If you're sure.” 

“Thank you,” Emma said, this time with a smile. “I'm sure.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

There was nothing like a Maine winter to remind you that once your car has hit thirty years old, the years start hitting back. It wasn't that the bug was exactly malfunctioning, it just had no heating, grumped about the temperature, and occasionally stalled out at stop signs unless you kept your foot planted on the gas.

Luckily, there weren't too many stop signs in the few blocks to Mifflin Street. And no one out on the street, Emma noticed. She'd expected to see a few families: kids out playing with new toys or building snowmen, but it was cold and the wind was picking up, and the bug's windows rattled with each gust. It wasn't really snowman weather, and the snow was hard-packed and crystalline.

She'd had a good Christmas Eve, all things considered. She was always happy after she'd been spending time with Henry, and she and David and Snow had dressed warm, drank what her head was telling her now was probably a little too much eggnog, and talked. They'd done family things in the morning, too; breakfast together and opening presents. It was...nice. Pleasant. Nothing wrong with it at all.

She loved them, she _did_ \- at least as much as it was possible to love the long-lost parents you'd met up with recently and who'd turned out to be younger than you. It was just that she always felt like kind of a third wheel around them; felt a kind of melancholy as though she still didn't quite fit. 

She was trying though. They all tried, Regina and Henry included. They made time for each other and made room for each other in their lives. Emma had never worked so hard at relationships in her life, but it was worth it. When you could spend Christmas morning with your parents, laughing and joking and be-scarved and be-gloved and wrapped in blankets and still kind of freezing your butt off, and then go to lunch with your son and – whatever her relationship with Regina was – well, yeah. It was worth all the work and more.

The car coughed around the corner and Emma parked on the road, giving the dashboard a pat of thanks as she gathered up gifts, a bottle of red wine she remembered Regina liked, and the plateful of cookies she'd worked so hard over. Mary Margaret had suggested cellophane and ribbon ties, but Emma figured this whole Christmas thing and this whole Regina thing was probably weird enough already without adding sparkly little bows and name tags reading “from Emma's kitchen” to the mix.

It started sleeting as she walked up to the house, and rain-soaked pieces of ice slipped between her hair and collar, skittering down her neck and back. She'd worn the thickest pants she owned that were not actually sweatpants, in deference to the Christmas spirit, and a gray sweater, because Regina had once commented that it brought out the color of her eyes.

Not that she had a thing.

She knocked on the door, still lost in thought, and was surprised when it opened almost immediately. She'd assumed Regina and Henry would be spending time together and enjoying their Christmas morning. Emma hadn't wanted to take that away from them. Shared custody was one thing, but she respected their relationship. It had been an adjustment for Henry, at first. Emma thought it had also definitely been an adjustment for her, and she suspected for Regina as well, but Regina hadn't complained. After the initial, rocky start to their relationship, she and Henry and Emma had settled very well together, trading times to give Henry the most quality time with both of them that they could manage.

When the door swung open, Emma felt the warmth from inside immediately. Okay, she'd been celebrating the holiday in bracing chill (“It reminds me of sleeping out in the forest,” Snow had said brightly, with the implication that, _man, those were some times_. Emma had just shaken her head). Okay, looking inside, there were lights on every surface so the whole placed glowed, and holly wrapped around the staircase banister and doorways and mantels, and no tinsel anywhere. Okay, it smelled _amazing_ , like turkey and baked potatoes and cinnamon and Regina. Okay, Regina was wearing this dark-red knit dress thing that clung to her hips and Regina in red did things to Emma's insides that she was never, ever going to be able to discuss with Henry.

Okay, maybe she did kind of have a thing.

* * *

“Come in,” Regina said, with a perplexed smile. 

Emma supposed she had been standing there gaping for some moments. It was just - _damn_. She cast about for something to say, and went with a cheery: “Merry Christmas!”

Regina's smile turned sardonic, so Emma guessed she wasn't fooled. “Come in,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “It's freezing.”

“I'm aware,” Emma said, and walking in, let her gift bag handles slide up to her elbow as she toed off her boots to leave them beside the door. There was a hole in one of her socks and her big toe was exposed.

“Let me take something,” Regina said, reaching for her arm. 

“No, uh-uh,” Emma said, stepping back out of her reach. “Absolutely no peeking.”

“I was not going to peek,” said Regina with dignity. “Hand me whatever you trust me with, then.”

“Wine and my coat,” Emma decided, dropping her plate of cookies on the entrance table and handing the bottle to Regina, then shrugging out of her jacket.

“That's it?” Regina raised an eyebrow, folding Emma's coat over her arm.

“I think - “ Emma started, and then stopped herself. _I think you know it's more than that,_ she'd been about to say. But Regina didn't, did she? They talked about work and what time to pick up Henry and sometimes about books (Regina read _everything_ ) or magic (Emma was more on the nodding-and-smiling end of those conversations; she'd always been better at practice than theory). They never talked about what they meant to each other. Emma wasn't good at that kind of conversation. _Clearly_ , Regina wasn't good at that kind of conversation.

“Your coat's wet,” Regina commented, interrupting her reverie.

“It's snowing,” Emma said, with perhaps a trace of petulance, and picked up the cookie plate again. “Or slushing, or something. It's horrible.”

“You have a hole in your sock.”

“I was hoping you'd politely ignore that.”

“Does that sound like something I'd do?”

Emma grinned, and walked ahead to the kitchen. “Not even a little bit. What did you do with Henry?”

“Playing on his new game system. Wait.”

Emma stopped, and turned back. “You bought him that? After the discussion we had about not spoiling him and not interfering with his schoolwork and how those things become obsolete in two years and it would be more practical to buy him, well, literally anything else?”

“It's Christmas, Emma,” Regina said, with a faint smile. And ugh, Emma's insides were doing that thing again, and if she stood here much longer with Regina looking at her like that, all dark eyes and red-lipsticked smirk, she was going to do something really, really stupid. She deliberately turned her head, and started walking again.

“I said wait,” Regina said, and Emma felt the other woman's hand running up the arm of her sweater. “Let me feel you.”

_Do not_ , Emma told herself sternly, and bit her lip and counted to five before she replied. “I had my coat on, and it's not raining hard.”

“I just want him to be happy,” Regina said, so quietly Emma only just caught the words. And then: “You were just complaining about the sleet, and since you seem to be incapable of dressing yourself for the weather and you wear clothes with _holes in them_ , it stands to reason you couldn't stay dry on the walk from the car.”

“I'm not wet!” _Oh, for the love of -_

Regina, thankfully, did not respond, but as Emma reached the kitchen and unloaded her burdens onto the table, she followed and stepped close. Emma was faced forward, but could feel Regina's gaze. She hesitated and looked up.

Regina was regarding her intently, and stepped in still further. 

Emma froze. Move? Don't move? Lean in and kiss the lipstick off that mouth? Panic?

_Panic_ it was, apparently. She flinched as Regina reached out a hand to her face, and stepped backward, bumping the table with her thigh and sending the wine to the floor. The bottle shattered, and red wine splattered against Emma's legs and seeped across the floor, soaking her socks.

Regina looked down and groaned. “Don't move,” she said. “You'll get glass stuck in your feet.” She reached her extended hand into Emma's hair, and then withdrew it, holding out a strand of tinsel. “Very holiday appropriate.”

Emma, who had also found a length of tinsel under her shirt when she'd undressed last night and one wrapped around her big toe before she'd put on her maligned socks this morning, took it from her and grimaced.

“This stuff is cursed,” she grumbled.

“Don't be dramatic,” Regina said, and placed one hand, then the other on each of Emma's hipbones. There was a long minute where Emma felt the weight of the other woman's hands on her; was sure she could feel each finger and the heat of the blood beneath her skin. Then Regina gently pushed her back toward the table. “Sit there. I'll clean up.”

Emma opened her mouth, but words wouldn't come out. “It's my fault,” she said finally, but sat herself down. Did Regina just - ? That happened, right?

“As are most things,” Regina said amiably.

They didn't usually _touch_ each other, Emma thought, that was the thing. They were not the hugging kind of friends. She couldn't imagine Regina being physically demonstrative with anyone other than Henry – there was a Keep Away sign a mile high on the woman, but Emma had never been one for reading signs herself – and Emma only hugged Snow and David (and then usually at their instigation), and now Henry. At the core of it, for both Emma and Regina, Henry was their one exception; their safe and true thing.

Emma pushed her hair behind her ear, and hooked her feet up out of Regina's way. “Hey, Regina?”

The other woman stopped sweeping up shards of glass to look at her expectantly.

“Merry Christmas,” said Emma.

“All right,” said Regina awkwardly, after a moment, and swept the floor underneath Emma's dangling feet.

* * *

This was also weird, Emma decided, walking up the staircase. Regina had divested her of her wet socks and sent her upstairs in search of dry ones. Emma had never really been comfortable with people doing her favors, even small ones, so she'd tried to protest but been overruled.

It was warm enough in here to go barefoot, she'd argued (it was warm enough to go naked, she'd thought but didn't say), but Regina had cited the slight possibility of a missed shard of glass and the slighter possibility that Emma might be cold later. At any rate, there was no wearing socks that were soaked in reasonably-priced-but-nice-enough-for-co-parent-slash-maybe-friends-slash-something-else-dinners red wine, so this was where Emma found herself, hesitating.

She'd reached the landing when she heard sound beneath her, and turned to see Henry walking up behind her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, kid,” Emma said, and when he reached her she wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He folded into her embrace, hugging her around the waist with more strength than she'd thought him capable of. “Merry Christmas,” she said, muffled by his hair, before letting him go.

“How's the Christmas attitude going?”

“Eh, so-so,” said Emma, gesturing with one hand. “Snow and David came back from caroling last night with enough goodwill toward men to power the town. They might have infected me a little.”

“Does this mean you're not the Grinch anymore?”

“Hey,” said Emma defensively. “I was not the Grinch. _A_ grinch, maybe. Also, how do you know the Grinch and not Frosty the Snowman?”

“I watch TV,” Henry explained patiently. “But I don't know old things like that.”

“Ouch. So I hear you love Playstation more than your family now.”

Henry grinned. “I promised Mom I'd always do my homework before I play.”

“You know, for a fairy tale villain, she really is a pushover. Don't tell her I said that.”

“Well, the joke's on me, anyway. She won't let me play anything rated higher than E, so there's like three games in the world.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a slight exaggeration.”

“It's not! You and Mom wouldn't understand. Other kids are allowed to play whatever they want.” Henry folded his arms, mouth set in a mutinous line. 

Emma, recognizing that particular piece of body language from her own teenage years, sighed. “Okay, whatever. Help me find socks, your mom sent me to raid her drawers.”

“Her bedside table,” Henry said, and followed her to Regina's bedroom.

The room was amazing, of course. Emma had been past the doorway before, but never inside. It was surprisingly soft, considering what she'd seen of Regina's decorating preferences; patterned wallpaper and warm wooden furniture. There was a window seat where Emma imagined Regina would sit to read. 

Outside, the day had taken on the peculiar bluish hue of a storm, and Emma put a hand over her hip, almost unconsciously checking her phone was still in her pocket. David was on call for the day, but small-town sheriffs don't really ever go off duty, and Storybrooke was more complicated than most small towns. She thought of her car's valiant, ageing heart, and wondered how her drive home was going to go. 

Emma stopped to inhale the scent of fresh flowers on the dresser, thinking of her own bedroom in Snow's loft, which was generally strewn with discarded clothes and – more often than she was perhaps willing to admit - empty coffee cups. Maybe she should buy a laundry basket.

“I'm serious, Ma,” Henry continued from the doorway. “The other kids - ”

“You're not the other kids, Henry, and are you seriously going to make me give you the 'if the other kids wanted to jump off a cliff' speech?”

Henry shrugged, but didn't reply. 

Emma stepped back, dropping her hands. One of the rose petals peeled away from the flower and fell on the polished wood.

“It's Christmas Day and you're complaining about your gift already? What's going on?”

Henry shrugged again.

“Oh, that's helpful.” Emma opened the drawer and found a surprising selection of fluffy socks. Standing on one foot, she tugged a sock over one foot and then braced herself on the bed to swap to the other foot. 

“I'm not complaining,” Henry said finally. “It's just – she's too protective. I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I went to Boston by myself to find you!”

Emma opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again.

“And I found you,” Henry went on. “And I figured out the curse and what Mom – was - and – and this is not little kid stuff anymore, Emma. She's too overprotective and I can't do anything I want. It's not fair. You always listen to me. She just tells me what to do.”

Emma put the other sock on, thinking over her reply. “I thought you two were doing okay. You're still mad at her?”

“It's not about that,” Henry said, and catching Emma's gaze: “It's _not_. She's my mom and I love her. But I'm not a baby anymore.”

“Sometimes that's hard for parents to deal with,” Emma said. Hell, it wasn't that easy for her to deal with. As complicated as life had looked when Henry was born, these days she was nostalgic for that kind of simplicity. She looked at the rose petal, marring the perfect tidiness of the room, and picked it up and slipped it in her pocket. “I'll talk to her,” she said finally. “I'm not making any promises. But maybe she could let a few things slide. Maybe the occasional videogame.”

Henry grinned.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Emma. “You know if you whined at her like you just whined at me, you wouldn't stand a chance.”

“Well, there's a reason why I talked to you about it and not her.”

“Wiseass,” said Emma, and then: “Don't tell your mom -”

“I think she knows you cuss in my presence, Emma.”

“No, shhh, she doesn't know that. Don't tell her about my imperfections.”

Henry's look was skeptical.

* * *


End file.
